


Silver Spun

by AvaChanel



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: F/M, Family Bonding, Father-Daughter Relationship, Fluff, Found Family, Love, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Romance, Wholesome, but mostly - Freeform, it gets a little bit smutty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:41:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22222732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvaChanel/pseuds/AvaChanel
Summary: Much to her own detriment, Yennefer finds out the hard way that both Ciri and Geralt have more in common than just Destiny...One-shot where Geralt and Yennefer try doing the parent thing.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 35
Kudos: 593
Collections: Babies





	Silver Spun

_Like father like daughter,_ Yennefer thought with a hint of malice. 

Exasperated, the sorceress blew at a stray curl of dark hair from her face to no avail.

" _Cirilla,_ " she commanded, unable to mask her vexation at the current object of her ire. 

Damned heels. Damned _dress_ . The little girl had the older woman at a disadvantage in the woods. "Get over here _this instant,_ " Yennefer demanded through gritted teeth. 

A low hanging branch then snapped and struck her against the forehead and Yennefer nearly set the entire forest ablaze in response. Anger spiking, it was all she could do to simply break the offending branch in retaliation, certain that the flawless skin between her brows was now marked red with an ugly, growing welt. “Cirilla!” she called again, now with more bite to her tone. 

Somewhere in the distance, there was a ruffling of leaves and a crunching of twigs, but before she could investigate further, Yennefer lost her balance, tripping on a log buried beneath a brush of decaying plants. She staggered and fell forward, onto her hands, her long black dress no doubt stained with fresh mud and dirt and straw. Long tendrils of her silken hair stuck to her lipstick and clung to bits of dried leaves. The palms of her hands itched and burned something fierce, the skin going brown with the caked mud she’d slipped on. As she’d gone tumbling down, Yennefer had let out an unassuming screech of surprise, hearing it echo and reverberate around her in the fog of the deep woods. She cursed under her breath and told herself that crying in frustration wouldn’t solve _any_ of her current problems. No matter how tempting it was what with the fresh, hot tears stinging the backs of her eyes, more in unmitigated rage than sadness. 

Instead, she screamed, loud and unfiltered and screeching, enough to make any birds in the nearby vicinity take to the skies, their dark wings aflutter amongst the old, tall trees, disappearing into the thin clouds above. Yennefer banged her fists against the ground angrily, breathing heavy and hard with the exertion. Geralt would never let her live this down, if he found out that she’d lost track of his child surprise when it had been the singular task he'd left her with. And all because she’d threatened to use a _comb_ on the unruly, former princess. 

“I’m going to _kill_ that blasted witcher,” snarled Yennefer. 

“I pity the fool of a man who happens to cross _you_ , Yennefer of Vengerberg.” 

It was incredible how she didn’t even hear him approach her — as stealthy as a snake, despite his impressive size, heavy footfalls, and armor. She didn’t need to look up at him to recognize that husky, gruff voice, like crushed velvet and smoke against her ear. Geralt never failed to send a delightful shiver up her spine whenever he addressed her, regardless of the context.

Only this time, it grated on her nerves, also. Fixing a stormy, violet gaze in his direction, Yennefer glared daggers at Geralt's insufferable, bemused expression. It was fleeting to see the White Wolf smiling at all, let alone down his nose at her, observing with his golden eyes her rather embarrassing predicament. Still, ever the gentleman, he extended a gloved hand to help her up, and if it weren't for the annoying twists and knots of her complex, heavy skirts, she’d likely have shunned his aid entirely. Except, Yennefer was certain that the heel of her shoe was stuck in the mud somewhere and she wasn’t too thrilled with the notion of yanking it out herself while the witcher continued to watch her like a hawk. 

Begrudgingly, she took his hand — warm and sure — and Geralt helped her to her feet almost effortlessly, his strength unmatched. “Care to tell me the tale of how a woman of _your_ stature ended up here, all on her lonesome?” Geralt asked, a lilt of humor in his tone. 

“Why, yes,” Yennefer answered sweetly, but her sarcastic edge did not escape the keen witcher, who immediately frowned in concern the moment she’d turned her ire on him. “Perhaps you’d like to explain to your _daughter_ how having wild, unruly hair is not actually part of a witcher’s code, and is in fact because you cannot be bothered to run a _comb_ through that ghostly white mane of knots once every blue moon!” 

Yennefer was fuming, desperate to get the mud and grime out of her hair and clothes with no such luck, and had thus decided to vent her frustrations onto the only man next to her. Even now, she noticed how messy and static Geralt's frame of pale hair was. Strands and wisps of white escaping the elastic he used to keep it out of his face. Sloppy and unkempt and _wild_. 

Just like Cirilla's, Yennefer recalled bitterly. The child idolized her witcher father and had even taken to some of his _less desirable_ traits, much to the sorceress' chagrin. One of which included keeping her bush of long blonde curls in as much disarray as possible. So much so that every time Yennefer would try to comb the crazed thing, Ciri would burst into tears from the pain.

Which had ultimately culminated in her running away, disappearing beyond the forest's edge when the sorceress had insisted on their monthly ritual grooming session. 

Geralt's expression fell, and he glanced about the abandoned woods in all directions before looking to Yennefer for answers. "You mean to tell me she ran off because...you threatened to comb her hair?" 

He quirked up a thick, bushy, silver brow and Yennefer could practically hear the way he was holding back his laughter. And then more seriously, he added, "You lost Ciri?" 

"I didn't _lose_ her!" Yennefer barked in self defense. "I know exactly where she went! Why else would I be running through these damned trees in the most inappropriate clothing? Did you think I maybe took up _your_ profession, too?! The Gods forbid I try and make the girl look _presentable_ ! And _this_ is what I get for it!" 

If Geralt was offended by her callous words, he was careful not to show it. Instead, he stood staring at Yennefer, unblinking, his otherworldly eyes intimidating enough for her to feel them boring into her. Only when he brandished his silver sword — the metal singing out of its scabbard — did Yennefer pause the persistent beating of her dress in the vain attempt she'd made to rid it of nature's foul mark. She backed away a little in surprise, wondering why the witcher had drawn his weapon. 

A cold, foreboding terseness overtook the witcher then, his tone deep and grim when he spoke. "You shouldn't have come here," he snarled in Yennefer's direction. "I'm in the middle of a _hunt_." 

As if on cue, the fog seemed to roll in thicker at his words, and Yennefer felt a lump lodge itself in her throat. The choking fear she was experiencing was not due to the concern over her own safety — with Geralt at her side, she was more than certain they could handle most of what the cruel world had in store for them — but rather for that of their daughter's, currently lost and alone in treacherous, unknown woods. 

"We have to find Ciri," she resolved, stone-faced. Yennefer's eyes darted about nervously now, wary of any sound, or the slightest brush of an unnatural wind. Her skin prickled with goosebumps, and a chill seemed to run down her spine. Licking her lips, Yennefer prepared a spell in the back of her mind, letting Geralt take the lead this one time. Hunting monsters was, after all, his specialty. She watched him curiously as he removed a tincture from his pouch, full of a viscous looking, dark amber liquid. He dabbed it onto a dirty rag and wiped it along the edge of his blade. 

“Geralt?” Yennefer called out in a hoarse whisper, trying to keep up behind him and fighting every urge to cling to his bulging upper arm in comfort. “What...what exactly are you hunting?” She gulped. 

“A _fiend_ lives in these woods,” he whispered back, voice gruff and strained. 

Yennefer felt her blood go cold. “A _fiend_?” She was suddenly dizzy, swaying on the spot as her throat constricted. “C-Ciri...Geralt, Gods, we have to get to Ciri!” 

“I know that. Stay close to me and we’ll find the girl,” he growled, yellow eyes alert and the muscles of his back hunched forward in what the sorceress could only describe as a predatory stance

Together, they navigated the woods through the thickening fog. If Yennefer wasn’t careful, she thought she’d lose sight of the witcher entirely, and more than a few times, she found herself bumping into him unintentionally, much to her unspoken relief. Geralt didn’t seem to be as vexed by it as she’d have thought. Fiends were big and scary monsters and they could make short work of even the most seasoned warriors with the help of their hypnotizing third eye. Yennefer had read about them in books when growing up in Aretuza, but never had she dreamed of the day she’d be seeing one up close and personal. For starters, the sharp-toothed, antlered creatures typically liked to live in isolation, and for another, not many who met a fiend could say that they actually _survived_ the encounter. 

“Have you beaten one before?” she asked him quietly, her fingertips itching to brush against the studded leather of his armor. It was difficult to keep herself from touching him — the irrational need was nearly an instinct, like _breathing_. 

“Hmm…" 

"Geralt?" 

He stuck out his arm before her, barring her path so that she didn't take another step forward. Straining to listen for whatever small sound the trained, silver-haired witcher may have heard, Yennefer paused and watched him intently. But the forest was unnaturally silent. She didn’t know what she was looking for exactly, and so she was almost lost in the golden swirls of his eyes and sharp profile. The deep lines of his face were more prominent in his stern state, age-old scars appearing angry and fresh against the pallor of his skin. And yet, Yennefer was still left breathless and unaware. 

Still, her heart swelled within her chest, and something in her belly ached and soared, like gravity no longer applied to her. Like she’d take off and float away if he wasn’t careful enough to anchor her down. She hated the effect he had on her, and even in life-threatening situations, all Yennefer could do was remember in excruciating detail how irrevocably _in love_ she was with the infamous White Wolf. All the lovers she'd had over the years, and none could ensnare her heart the way he had. None held a candle to the whirlwind of emotions and raw, magnetic pull she felt for the witcher. 

Just then, drawing their immediate attention, something moved in the fog in the direction over to the sorceress’ right. The side of hers that she was notably _not_ flanked by a burly witcher and his trusty, monster-hunting sword. Cold dread had sweat beading on Yennefer’s upper lip, and she held onto a simple protection spell in the back of her throat, ready to be unleashed at a moment's notice. 

But Geralt had swiftly shuffled her aside in a singular, fluid motion, pulling her behind his bulky form and standing between her and whatever it was that was fast approaching them from within the fog. 

"Yen," he called out, catching her attention with the affectionate use of her nickname. As Geralt picked out yet another tincture from his pouch — this one full of a liquid so black, not even the light could touch it — and made to drink from it, he added, "Fiends are fast. Watch for its paws, and don't bother with _Aard._ It won't work on them." 

The whites of his eyes went as black as the liquid in the glass, and Geralt snarled, lips curled back, skin going almost as ashen pale as his hair. Yennefer watched the transformation with a wide, unblinking gaze as big, protruding veins grew more prominent along the witcher’s eyelids, climbing like bloody vines around the edges of his cheeks and temples.

"And whatever it is you do, _do not_ look into its central eye!” he grunted and strained, his voice on edge, as if he were struggling with an immense, insurmountable pain. 

"I've read the books, Geralt," Yennefer finally scoffed, recalling her studies and trying not to think about the way she was overcome with the innate, primal desire to _help_ him. "I believe they detest loud noises, too, am I right?" she continued. 

This earned her a side look from the witcher that was both a mix of pride and pleasant surprise. Yennefer couldn't stop a coy smirk from pulling at her lips. Geralt had just opened his mouth to make some other witty remark when a close rustling of leaves captured his attention. 

Before either of the two could think to move a muscle, a blur of royal blue came rushing at them out of the bushes, little feet shuffling a path through an array of dead leaves. The fog made it so that the fast-moving object took them both by surprise, but Geralt's sword hand fell to his side as he adjusted to stand tall with shoulders back, an ivory brow raised in perplexion. It was within a blink of an eye that Yennefer witnessed him being nearly bowled over by a five foot tall girl with wild, silver-blonde hair, wearing a blue cloak over her slim, dainty shoulders. The child had thrown her arms around Geralt’s waist in a fierce embrace that had sent him nearly staggering a step back. Impressive, when taking into account his more than sturdy size and weight. 

"Ciri!" Yennefer cried out in immediate recognition, a sense of relief washing over her. The sorceress was grinning from ear to ear, heart pounding now that she knew her charge was in fact unharmed. 

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to run off…," the former princess shyly apologized in a muffled voice, her face half tucked against Geralt's abdomen. Cirilla appeared to peek through her curtain of unruly hair and the sorceress crouched down so that she was at eye-level with her. 

In her head, Yennefer had prepared a lengthy lecture, a mean scolding that would have put to shame any of Tissaia’s infamous verbal thrashings. But in the moment, the raven-haired beauty couldn't find an ounce of her anger left, let alone any of the harsh words she’d planned on using to instill fear into Ciri. So, instead, she shook her head and gave the girl's shoulder an affectionate squeeze. "No, don’t worry about any of that nonsense now. I'm just glad you're okay. I was...I was worried sick,” she admitted with a cock of her head and a sincere, sympathetic smile.

Geralt grunted his assent from above. "I can say for certain that the witch isn’t lying. I was there, and she was an emotional wreck fretting over you.” Before Yennefer could manifest her dispute at these heavy accusations, Geralt continued, “Now, you two need to get out of here until I can take care of this fiend and fulfill the contract." 

" _Fiend_?!" Ciri's eyes widened then as she looked up at Geralt, with both the astonishment and the excitement of a child her age. "There's a _fiend_ here? Can I see? Please, oh, please? I won’t get in the way, I promise!" 

"No," Geralt pronounced with an icy finality. Before she could protest further, however, he thrust Ciri away from him and into Yennefer's arms. "Go back to town with Yen. I'll join you both shortly."

In a heartbeat of a moment, his blackened gaze flickered to the older woman for confirmation, and Yennefer nodded briskly in assent, her arms protective around Ciri's shoulders as she held her back. “Come now," she then said to her charge, "I believe we’re both due for a bath after this little impromptu trip into the forest. By the time we’re done, Geralt’ll be finished and back before you know it.” 

Ciri knew better than to argue the point whenever the witcher used that tone of voice with her — especially while he was on a serious job. Nonetheless, she appeared hurt and disappointed by Geralt’s immediate abandonment, staring longingly at his vanishing form as he went deeper into the thick, rolling fog, while Yennefer summoned a portal to escape the woods...

* * *

It was well into the wee hours of the early morning before Geralt had managed to slip unnoticed into Yennefer’s bedroom. She’d been fast asleep on her side when she’d felt the mattress shift with his added weight, and his arm snake around her trim waist, pulling her back flush against his familiar, naked chest. The sorceress sighed contently, easing into his touch the way a puzzle piece fell perfectly into place. Geralt peppered warm, honeyed kisses along the smooth curve of her exposed neck and shoulder, up to the lobe of her ear, his five o’clock shadow tickling Yennefer’s skin delightfully, sparking a fire in her belly that would not be easily satisfied. Even partially awake, she was well aware of his arousal pulsing against her buttocks, hard and warm among the thick brush of his pubic hair. 

Yennefer ran her fingers affectionately along his arm, playing with the small, coarse hairs nestled against her belly. Eyes closed, she smiled contently, loving the way his naked body fit to hers, all hard muscles against her soft, supple shape. Geralt carefully brushed some of her silken, obsidian hair from her neck, his rough, calloused fingers surprisingly gentle. His cool, wet tongue then swept out when he kissed her tenderly again, tasting the remnants of rosewater from her bath, and it elicited a low moan from the sorceress’ throat. She responded by grinding back against his erection, making the witcher grunt aloud, his hand groping her nearest breast and squeezing. In a carnal gesture, he also thrust his hips impatiently against her, his erection throbbing and nestling between the backs of her thighs. 

“ _Geralt_ …,” Yennefer moaned his name breathily, her hand reaching back to tangle in the knots of his unkempt hair. This caused her to pause unceremoniously as she felt all the stiff knots from days of inattention. She blinked, then turned to face him, effectively putting an end to their brief moment of passion. “For goodness sake, what will it take to get you to do something about that _mess atop your head_?!” Yennefer had started working her fingers through the long strands of his dirty white hair with little luck and a lot of roughness. 

Geralt winced from the pain and he brushed her hand away while trying to distance himself from her sudden assault. “What are you doing, Yen?!” he cried in protest. 

“Trying to fix your dastardly hair! What does it look like I’m doing? Do you realize Ciri running away this morning was all because of _you_? If you would just lead by example in the first place, then maybe she’d let me near her hair with a comb without tearing up!”

Infuriatingly enough, once Yennefer's hands were kept to herself, Geralt smirked, propping his head up using his elbow and regarding his lover with a warm sense of amusement and adoration in his expression. “I thought you loved my hair,” he teased, amber eyes glowing warmly, the colour of a pale, yellow ale in the blue filter of moonlight. Noting the fresh red welt on her forehead, he then stared solemnly at the wound, making the sorceress grow self-conscious. 

“ _That_...is besides the point,” Yennefer replied stringently, feeling caught off guard with his playfulness. Geralt was almost _always_ playful when he was horny, especially after he was fresh from a kill. It reminded her of a cat toying with its food whenever it was hungry. Of course, there were those _other_ times where all he wanted to do was take her pleasure immediately, both their lust all-consuming and impatient, his hunger for her something dark and dangerous. She quite enjoyed him like that, too. 

Geralt's smile then grew wider, and he picked up a long, loose tendril of her hair and twirled it around his finger. 

“Not everyone can have hair like _yours_ , Yen.” He spoke deeply, his tone rich and erotic, laced with a promise of what he’d like to do to her tonight, and how eager he was in getting to it. The way his ravenous gaze swept over her curves just beneath the sheets, and how he licked his lips in anticipation, was almost enough to make Yennefer _forget_ what it was that she was even arguing with him about.

_Almost._

“I mean it, Geralt. Set a proper example for your daughter,” she warned, narrowing her eyes at him in an effort to appear intimidating. 

“Hmm...” He at least contemplated what she had said, but then moved his lips to her forehead, kissing the injury there with all the tenderness of a healer. It was so intimate and so unexpected that it rendered the typically guarded woman a moment of vulnerability. It was enough for him; Geralt then maneuvered down towards her neck, where he inhaled her scent deeply, lilacs and gooseberries, and kissed her softly right below her jaw. Obviously, Geralt had other things on his mind at the moment, and could not be dissuaded from his task when all his blood was currently pooled in his nether regions.

Yennefer's skin grew seering hot wherever he touched, and she careened into him involuntarily, her own body betraying her desire and longing. Initially, she brought her hands to his chest in an effort to push him away, but instead, found a lack of strength when she used her palms to feel along his warm skin and coarse hair that dusted the wide expanse of his pectorals. The chain he wore of the silver wolf was cold beneath her fingertips, but Geralt dipped in for another starved kiss and a nip of his teeth at her lips, and Yennefer could hardly think straight anymore. “I’ll consider it,” he growled low in her ear while her eyelids fluttered closed.

 _Bloody witcher and his wiles_ , she thought briefly before all sense of thought and reason ceased to exist and there was only _him_ left. Yennefer's body became like puddy, pliable beneath his fingers and mouth, and when he climbed on top of her and spread her legs apart with his knee, Yennefer couldn’t find it in her to utter a _word_ of complaint...

* * *

The following week, Geralt had decided to allow Yennefer to wash and detangle his hair in the bath when he'd surprisingly joined her during her ritualistic self-care routine. Even though the witcher was in obvious pain, having his head yanked around for nearly an hour while cursing under his breath, Geralt managed to sit still through the whole thing, allowing the sorceress to work her magic. Yennefer had washed, conditioned and softened his hair until it was a gleaming silver mane just barely brushing the tops of his shoulders. 

“There,” she commented proudly, finally content now that the comb was able to glide through the strands with no effort at all. “It even _smells_ lovely!” 

Geralt groaned in response, splashing water onto his face. Yennefer could practically _hear_ him scowling, even with his back to her. She giggled then and called out, “Ciri! Ciri, come in here for a moment, please?” 

A minute passed before they finally heard the young princess' soft voice filter in from beyond the bathroom door. “...You two aren’t doing anything _gross_ , are you?” 

Yennefer threw her head back and laughed. “Not unless you think getting all the dirt off your rather _ripe_ father is gross. In which case, yes.” 

The aforementioned witcher was now lying back against the edge of the tub, eyes closed and arms draped over the sides. “If Jaskier gets a whiff of me like this, he’ll no doubt write a song about the infamous, flower-scented witcher from Rivia,” he grumbled with a developing sneer.

“Oh, hush. Show Ciri your hair.” 

The little girl had cautiously peeked through the opened crack of the door, obviously apprehensive of what she’d find beyond it. Her newly adopted parents had a rather... _inappropriate_ reputation. Not even her child ears had been spared of their infamous tales, and so she’d had a hard time trusting Yennefer’s words, no matter how sincere they may have been. It would not have been the first time she'd accidentally walked in on them. 

Immediately, Ciri’s gaze fell onto Geralt's luscious, silver hair, now combed and flat, and her jaw dropped. 

Yennefer smiled coyly, being sure to remain mostly beneath the water for decency’s sake. “Come now, don’t be shy. Touch it. Smell it. Isn’t it beautiful? Who’d have thought Geralt had such _lovely_ hair beneath all that grime?” 

Geralt harrumphed, but kept his eyes shut, even as Ciri ran her fingers through the damp waves of the back of his head, her expression one of disbelief. “Oh, wow…Yennefer...can you make my hair this...pretty, too?”

At this, Geralt cracked open a single eye in mocking indignation. “ _Pretty_?” he mouthed, the word sounding strange and foreign in his gravelly voice. They both ignored him.

Nodding, Yennefer beckoned the girl to her side of the bath. “I sure can. It’ll hurt a little at first, but if you maintain it, like Geralt will, it’ll get easier every day.” 

The witcher sat up in the tub now, at full attention. “Hey now, I never said-”

Yennefer spoke over Geralt. “Don’t listen to him,” she tutted impatiently, already beginning to smooth back Ciri’s untamed ringlets with her wet fingers. “He _will_ keep his hair clean for the foreseeable future.” The mage shot him a menacing, violet glance from overtop the girl’s head that effectively silenced him. Geralt sighed and went back to relaxing in the tub, knowing when arguing would not be in his favor. 

“Actually…,” Ciri started, sounding a bit nervous, perhaps even a little embarrassed and shy. “I was wondering...if maybe you could plait it the way you do yours sometimes?” 

Yennefer’s hands froze in the girl’s curls, and something in her heart leapt to her throat. She could feel Geralt’s eyes watching her intently, like he always did whenever she’d catch his interest — which was all the time, really. He never did stop _staring_. It was both flattering and humiliating, as he did it brazenly and didn’t care if others noticed. And they always did. 

Clearing her throat, Yennefer was sure to mask her bubbling emotions lest the highly perceptive witcher catch on and hold it against her later. She mustered a small smile, continued combing through Ciri’s hair as if nothing out of the ordinary had transpired, and said, “Of course. We can style it whichever way you like, love.” 

From the corner of her eye, Yennefer could swear she saw Geralt’s mouth quirk into a knowing grin, but in order to preserve her ego and pride, she elected to ignore him.

Besides, she was currently too busy bonding with her daughter at the moment, admiring the same silver spun strands she ironically shared with her new father. The same hair, Yennefer noted, that she'd come to love and adore over the years...

* * *

**FIN**


End file.
